'A river can sometimes be diverted but is a very hard thing to lose altogether.'(Paper to the Auctioneers' Institute, 1907)

At our feet they lie low,The little fervent undergroundRivers of London

Effra, Graveney, Flacon, Quaggy,Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet

Whose names are disfigured,Frayed, effaced.

There are the Magogs that chewed the dayTo the basin that London nestles in.These are the currents that chiselled the city,That washed the clothes and turned the mills,Where children drank and salmon swamAnd wells were holy.

They have gone under.Boxed, like the magician's assistant.Buried alive in earth.Forgotten, like the dead.

They return spectrally after heavy rain,Confounding suburban gardens. They inflitrateChronic bronchitis statistics. A silkenSlur haunts dwellings by shroudedWatercourses, and is takenFor the footing of the dead.

Being of our world, they will return(Westbourne, caged at Sloane Square,Will jack from his box),Will deluge cellars, detonate manholes,Plant effluent on our faces,Sink the city.

Effra, Graveney, Falcon, Quaggy,Wandle, Walbrook, Tyburn, Fleet

It is the other rivers that lieLower, that touch us only in dreamsThat never surface. We feel their tugAs a dowser's rod bends to the surface below